


Resentment

by sass_bot



Series: Ashes in the Snow [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 14:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20229397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_bot/pseuds/sass_bot
Summary: Iris visits the grave of the mother she never met and meets a pilgrim who assumes far more than he deserves to.[Sequel to "Meant to be Broken"][Originally posted on tumblr 05.08.2018]





	Resentment

She bears a striking resemblance to her mother, standing alone in the silent grove, the Inquisition’s insignia emblazoned on the back of her armor. The way her lips pucker as she whispers to the stone figure before her, and the way those same two white strands fall out of her bun as she bows her head in reverence are all too familiar to anyone who knew the Inquisitor when she was alive.

But Iris looks nothing at all like Areina Lavellan. Her shoulders are too stiff and her deep violet eyes are too angry. Her heart is a marvel of Starkhaven architecture -a wall as steep as it is sturdy, whereas her mother’s had been a lily pond with fireflies glittering in the air above it.

She’s lit a bundle of Prophet’s Laurel in the incense bowl that dangles from the outstretched hand of the statue. Iris can’t see the pilgrim swaddled in dark robes, hiding in the shadows of the trees, but the heady scent finds him nonetheless, seeping into his clothing and dancing along his arms like a familiar caress.

A twig snaps softly under his foot. Iris snaps to attention, her narrow eyes following him as he kneels down beside her at the altar. He’s nobody special, really. Just another elf come to pay his respects to the Inquisitor who slew the Dread Wolf.

At least, that’s how the story goes. The Inquisitor, a living Goddess in gold plate armor, went toe to toe with the fearsome Fen’harel, and thrust her golden sword through his heart at the cost of her own life. Iris had been far too young when it happened. 

Her hands instinctively find the ugly jawbone necklace resting against her chest -supposedly all that remained of the wolf after the Inquisitor killed him.

“You must resent her…”

The quiet rumbling voice catches her off guard. The man is now gazing at her, but it almost seems as if he’s looking at his own reflection in her eyes instead.

“That’s none of your business,” she snaps, inhaling deeply.

She’s always hated the scent of Prophet’s Laurel. It’s musty and sticks to her skin; it reminds her of sweaty nobles and vultures asking her nosy questions she couldn’t possibly know the answers to. She can’t breathe without feeling like she’s three years old, smothered under people’s condolences and platitudes.

“You people come here and you act like you _knew_ her, like her sacrifice _meant something_. You took her from me; there’s nothing left to take. Go home.”

He purses his lips, passing the thought around in his mind. He looks up at the statue, both a tribute and a tomb. “You’re right,” he then says, a quiver in his voice that Iris doesn’t notice, but that Areina would have been keen enough to catch. 

Fatigue catches up with Iris and she allows herself to drop to her knees beside the man. She traces his profile with her eyes, taking in his pronounced nose, the length of his lashes, and the pout of his lips.

“She died for nothing. It was an avoidable sacrifice. Facing Fen’harel in single combat was a tactical mistake on her part,” he clarifies. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Her only response is a tight-lipped frown.

“And so, you’re right. Her sacrifice was meaningless.”

She relaxes her shoulders and when she inhales, it’s more than incense that she smells. There’s something foreign in the air. The smoke flutters around her mother’s face, making her look more like a ghost than she already does.

“But not to you,” she replies. Her voice is soft like Areina’s, and wise beyond her years. “It meant something to you. That’s why you ran off, isn’t it?”

Facing her is like facing an old friend. It’s the same face, but the wrong ears. The same face, but the wrong eyes. The same face, but the wrong voice.

“Me?”

“Go home, Solas,” she says. The way her tongue flicks as she pronounces his name in her father’s heavy Starkhaven accent makes his heart twinge.

“You’re clever, like your mother.”

“I’m clever, like my father,” she corrects him firmly, refusing to meet his gaze. “Now, go home.”

By the time the laurel has burned out, Iris is alone again. She lies down at her mother’s feet, hair spread against her pillow like fresh snow, as her fingers trace the old, ugly jawbone still resting in the middle of her chest. And as her mind slowly drifts to the Fade, she contemplates the stranger sleeping right beside her.


End file.
